


the hope which has no opposite in fear

by MistressofHappyEndings



Series: more last than star [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Declarations Of Love, M/M, grief recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:28:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26999677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressofHappyEndings/pseuds/MistressofHappyEndings
Summary: Set immediately after "Love is the voice under all silences (Formerly Safe in My Hands)", Coën gets to return the care he received the night before.
Relationships: Coën/Lambert (The Witcher)
Series: more last than star [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1967638
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	the hope which has no opposite in fear

Coën hadn’t noticed it at first. He’d been too caught up in his own nervousness about saying the words himself, trying to figure out the best way and time to say them. He wanted it to be special. Lambert certainly deserved that from him. 

Lambert had come a long way since he’d found him in the woods, so deep in mourning for Aiden he’d wasted away to nearly nothing, unable to speak or interact with him in any significant way for days. It had taken every bit of persuasiveness Coën had possessed to get the younger Witcher to eat and bathe and change into clean clothes. Sleep was nearly impossible for Lambert until Coën had taken to curling up against his back at night, the blankets and his arms snug around the too thin torso, Coën’s hands wrapped around the other man’s trembling ones. 

It had taken a good deal of time for their friendship to change into a more romantic and physical relationship. It had never been Coën’s intention to pursue such a relationship with Lambert. Not that the younger Witcher wasn’t an attractive man, he most definitely was, but it had honestly not been something that had crossed his mind during their younger years together. The more time they spent together, though, the more Coën had felt his heart opening to the other man in ways beyond brotherhood. 

He’d kept his nascent feelings to himself for the longest time. Lambert had just lost someone who’d been his entire world, and it would hardly be fair for Coën to complicate any healing he’d managed with inconvenient desire. Though it felt like denying an essential part of himself, he’d resolved to merely be the friend and brother Lambert needed him to be and to keep his more romantic feelings locked safely away in the dark recesses of his heart where they couldn’t hurt anyone but himself. 

That plan had lasted right up until Lambert had turned in his arms one night and kissed him. 

It hadn’t been a chaste kiss, either. Startled by the abrupt approach, Coën had opened his mouth to say something, and Lambert had taken full advantage, sweeping his tongue inside to thoroughly conquer Coën’s mouth. He had forestalled any protests by wrapping his arms and legs around Coën in a bear hug of epic proportions. The only way Coën could have escaped would have caused serious injury to both the younger man and himself. 

Not that he had wanted to escape – far from it – but he had wanted to have been able to participate a little more than just passively accepting what Lambert decided to give him. That hadn’t been what Lambert had wanted, though, and Coën, recognizing his desperation, had let him do as he will. He had helped as much he could to remove enough clothing between them for skin to skin contact, and Lambert had clutched him close and rubbed furiously against Coën’s stomach until he reached his release. 

Coën himself hadn’t even gotten hard, but that hadn’t concerned him much, as after only a few moments after he’d climaxed, Lambert had stifled a harsh, ugly sob in Coën’s chest. Another cry had followed and another and another until the younger Witcher was wailing all the pent up grief he hadn’t allowed himself to express. Coën had wrapped himself around Lambert and held him until the storm of his emotions finally passed and the exhausted man collapsed in his arms. 

This trend had continued for a few weeks until Coën had finally been able to temper some of his desperation and grief, and their nightly encounters had become less one-sided. It had become more and more like love-making instead of just a distraction from pain, and the walls Coën had placed around his heart had slowly crumbled as his wounded Wolf accepted more affection from him and gave back in equal measure. 

So Coën had waited for the right moment to tell Lambert how he felt, but when the time did come, it definitely wasn’t one the Griffin would have chosen. 

They had taken a contract to rid a duchy of a drove of rotfiends. They had ultimately been successful, but both of them had been left panting and covered in blood and entrails by the end of the battle. He hadn’t been able to help himself. Beneath the viscera, Lambert had looked so vibrant and alive, so much like he had when Coën had first met him, and his heart had spoken for him. 

“Lambert, _schatje_ , I love you.” 

He had cursed himself a moment later when that fierce light in Lambert’s eyes dimmed, and his smile had faded. He had half-turned away from Coën, cleaning his sword on his sleeve as best he could before re-sheathing it, his shoulders slumped. 

Coën had fully expected him to walk away without saying another word, but to his surprise, he had straightened and came back right into Coën’s space. With a sad, barely there smile, hands curled around the older Witcher’s upper arms, Lambert had leaned into a light head bump all the Wolves seemed so fond of. He had held the pose for long moments, long enough for Coën to catch him by the elbows and try to pull him closer, when he had pulled back. The sad smile had remained on his lips, and a pained shadow in his eyes, but he’d left the woods walking at Coën’s side. 

He’d slept in Coën’s bed that night, too, and if he’d clung a bit tighter to him, was a bit more passionate in their love-making, well, Coën had held him just as close and tried to show him without words what Lambert meant to him. 

It’s maddening, wanting to be closer but being kept at arm’s length, but Coën was not a man easily deterred, and the prize for his persistence would be well worth the effort, he’s certain of it. So, he continued to love Lambert, with his words and his actions and his presence, and he waited for the day his beloved could at least acknowledge what he was trying to say. 

It took almost five full months after the first time Coën had said the words before Lambert finally confronted him about it. 

It had been a good day, despite the wretchedness of the day before. Coën had woken late in the morning, Lambert wrapped snugly around him in a close, encompassing embrace. The sheer protectiveness of the hold told Coën that he’d had another one of his episodes. The faint throb of pain at the base of his skull confirmed it. He’d sighed and resigned himself to a day of just enough of a headache to be annoying and a lingering weakness in his muscles just obvious enough to make Lambert worry. He’d also wondered, as he’d gauged the lateness of the day by the sunlight coming through the window, how soon they would need to get moving and if they would have time for some breakfast. 

Instead, he’d gotten a sleepy Lambert informing him that they didn’t have to go anywhere until the next day and that breakfast was already waiting for them on the small table by the fireplace. As the younger Witcher shuffled out of bed to retrieve their meal and bring it over for them to eat in bed, he’d explained the generosity of the innkeeper and how they didn’t have to move on until tomorrow, not so subtly hinting that they should take advantage of this unlooked for gift and just rest. 

Coën had his pride, yes, but he knew his limits and he had exceeded those a few contracts ago. Yesterday’s episode was the last warning he’d get before his body completely shut down on him to get the rest it desperately needed. He had never let himself get to that point since travelling with Lambert, and he wasn’t about to start now. The episodes already scared his Wolf, he refused to cause him more pain by collapsing on him or put him in danger by not being able to watch his back properly. A day’s respite was a small price to pay for the peace it would bring them both. 

Lambert couldn’t successfully hide his surprise and relief at Coën’s easy acquiescence to his suggestion, but Coën didn’t call him on it. He found it far more pleasant to pull the younger man close and eat the meal generously provided to them in companionable silence. The warmed stew was delicious, and both men tucked into it with gusto. 

After they finished, Lambert took the bowls and set them carefully aside before taking Coën’s face between both hands and studying him with a singular intensity. Coën met his gaze calmly, letting him take all the time he needed to reassure himself that Coën had recovered from yesterday as much as a night’s sleep and a good meal could make him. Lambert nodded a little to himself and tugged his head down to press a soft, lingering kiss against his forehead. 

The sound of shouting outside their window breaks the moment, and Lambert makes himself leave the bed to see what’s going on. There are quite a few villagers running about in some kind of coordinated chaos that at first raises Lambert’s hackles. He’s been on the receiving end of a mob too many times for such an uproar to sit easily with him, no matter the pretty promises of the innkeeper. But the longer he watches, the more the atmosphere doesn’t appear to be that of a town bent on driving out a couple of errant Witchers. If anything, there seems to be a cheerful kind of madness in the way the people are directed about by one or two individuals clearly in charge of the whole mess that has the younger Witcher intrigued despite himself. 

“Huh.” 

He feels the warmth of Coën’s body at his back a moment before the other man wraps his arms around his waist and props his chin on Lambert’s shoulder. “What is it, _schatje_?” 

“Looks like they’re gearing up for a party or something,” Lambert tilts his head towards the window as he rests his hands over Coën’s. “Want to go check it out or do you want to get some more sleep?” 

Coën shakes his head. “Not sure I could sleep through that. Let’s go downstairs to see what the innkeeper can tell us. I would like to thank her myself for her hospitality as well.” 

“Hmmm.” Lambert turns in his arms and takes a step back to survey his naked companion appraisingly. “Okay then, but first you need some clothes. I’m enjoying this look on you, but it’s a sight only I get to appreciate.” 

The other man chuckles softly and reels his lover back in to kiss him. By the time he pulls back, Lambert has nearly forgotten what they were talking about, and he’s suddenly far more interested in getting Coën back onto the bed that doing any investigating. Coën neatly avoids his grasping hands and pretends to ignore the petulant look on his face, even if he does find it privately adorable, as he rifles through his pack for his spare set of clothes. 

He turns back around to see that Lambert hasn’t moved from his position, the expression on his face hungry instead of petulant, and Coën rolls his eyes. He should have known better than bend over in front of his amorous lover. He tosses Lambert’s pack at him. 

“Get dressed, _schatje_ ,” Coën orders, pointedly pulling on his own clothes. 

He waits until Lambert, grumbling under his breath just loud enough for Coën to hear every complaint, is also clothed before taking his hand. Holding Lambert’s golden gaze, he presses a single, lingering kiss to each knuckle before turning his hand over to place another kiss into his scarred palm. He smiles when he hears the soft noise Lambert makes and feels his fingers clench slightly as if the younger Witcher wants to hold onto that kiss. Coën curves Lambert’s hand completely closed for him and gives him a gentle squeeze. 

“Come, beloved,” he says quietly, “Let’s go sate our curiosity and say our thanks. Then we can see where the rest of the day leads us.” 

Lambert follows him down the stairs. It doesn’t take them long to find that there is indeed a celebration being set up for that evening, a local holiday that happened to coincide with the children’s safe return. The innkeeper, whose name they discover is Rosalee, invites them to join, but they both decline, using Coën’s recovering health as their excuse. In reality, they don’t want to disrupt the festivities with their presence. All it would take is one drink too many for any goodwill to turn to bigotry and hatred, and neither Witcher want to cause any problems. 

Rosalee eyes them a moment, a knowing look that says she sees right through their excuse, but she doesn’t insist. Instead, she casually mentions that there is a trapdoor with a ladder that leads to the inn’s roof at the far end of the second floor hallway. They can enjoy the fireworks and music from there, if they chose. 

It’s not a bad compromise, and they can see that it means a lot to their generous hostess that they attend in some way. After all she has done for them, it’s a small sacrifice to make. The happy smile on her face when they agree tells them that they made the right decision. She shoos them back upstairs to relax until the festivities begin. 

With nothing else to do, a rarity for them outside of winters in Kaer Mohren, they pass the time alternating between making love and naps. As the sun sets, they rouse themselves from bed to ask for another bath to wash away the afternoon’s activities. The same two girls come up with the innkeeper, and Lambert does his best not to frighten them this time. He isn’t sure how successful he is, but Rosalee looks amused and touched by his efforts, anyway. 

Once they’ve bathed and dressed, they are met by the innkeeper at the top of the stairs. She shows them the trapdoor and watches them climb up the ladder that drops down from it. The ladder leads out to a flat part of the roof, just big enough for the two of them, and offers a clear view of the town square. A large bonfire has been lit, and the smells of roasting meat and other delicacies reach their noses. If they had thought the villagers were rowdy while setting up, it’s nothing to the activity going on now that they can enjoy the fruits of their labor. 

It’s probably a good thing they’ve chosen the roof for this celebration. Their Witcher senses would never have survived all of that chaos up close. 

They have just settled down when Rosalee pops up through the trapdoor. She is holding a tray laden with full plates, a pitcher of ale, a couple bottles of wine, and empty tankards. Coën hastily scrambles to help her with the tray. 

“What is all of this?” 

Rosalee gives him a look down the down the end of her nose. “You didn’t think I would let you go hungry on a night like this, did you? Especially when you are the reason for all this.” She waves her hand out towards the all the activity below. “No, we want you to enjoy the night, Master Coën, Master Lambert, as much as you can from up here, anyway. If you need anything, just let me know.” 

With those words, she disappears back down through the door and leaves them to stare at each other over the tray. Shrugging, Lambert fills one of the tankards from the pitcher and takes a long swallow from it. 

“C’mon, Coën, it’s just going to go to waste otherwise, and who knows when we’re going to eat this well again.” 

Knowing the wisdom in that statement, Coën joins him, and they lean companionably against each other as they enjoy the spicy dish of vegetables and meat. There is a generous portion of some kind of pastry for dessert, some kind of nut and honey and flaky crust concoction. Neither man had ever had anything like it before, but it is delicious. Bellies pleasantly full, they set aside the tray to take back down with them and turn their attention back to the celebration. 

Coën and Lambert watch in confusion and apprehension as a group of adults approach the inn and come to a halt below where the two Witcher sit. They seem in good spirits, but they are also carrying torches. They can make out Rosalee amongst them. Surely she wouldn't let them burn down her inn just to spite a couple of Witchers, would she? Both men tense into combat readiness then blink in surprise when the mob parts down the middle, and the village children push each other through the makeshift aisle until they stand before the adults in two rough lines. Looking up as one towards the Witchers, they take deep breaths and launch into a song. 

And oh sweet gods, it’s that dreadful “Toss A Coin” song that Geralt’s songbird has made so popular. Lambert bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from groaning out loud, especially when Coën starts humming along with the little choir. He’s grateful for all that song has done to make the Path easier, really he is, but that does not mean he wants to hear it all the time! Still, it is kind of adorable how much enthusiasm the children are putting into their loud and off-key rendition, and Lambert smirks as he thinks of all the ways he can use this against the bard when they see him again in the winter. 

The children finish their song and stare up at them with wide, expectant eyes. Unable to deny their adorable serenaders, the two men exchange a look filled with mischief and stand. Moving to the edge of the roof, they pause for a long moment, stern looks on both their faces, before they give the little ones perfectly synched and overly exaggerated bows. Giggling, the children clap and jump around in their glee at having successfully entertained their saviors, and the Witchers can’t help but smile at their innocent happiness. 

The pair of them settle into a comfortable silence after the children scatter to join their parents and neighbors around the bonfire. Now that they are no longer the focus of attention, they are content to observe the rest of the festival from their roost. As the night air cools, they find themselves gravitating towards each other’s warmth until Coën ends up leaning back against Lambert’s chest, seated between his legs. Lambert encircles him in his embrace, hands resting comfortably over Coën’s belly. He rests his chin on Coën’s shoulder, the bristles of his beard tickling Coën’s neck, every once in while tipping his head to the side to pepper chaste little kisses against the other Witcher’s chin and jaw. 

Coën smiles at each kiss and nuzzles gently against his temple in response, sometimes turning at just the right moment to briefly catch the younger man’s lips. He shows his own affection by lifting one of the sword-calloused hands from his stomach and pressing nipping little kisses to each knuckle in turn. He feels more than hears the low, content rumbling that Lambert made at his caresses and is quite content himself. 

They stay like for the rest of the evening, passing kisses and bits of food and wine between them, until the festivities eventually wind down. The villagers below them are slowly dispersing to their homes, several of the children sleepily waving up at them from their parents’ arms on their way by. They wave back and watch as the flames of the bonfire die down to mere embers. 

Drowsy, inhibitions lowered by wine and the peaceful serenity of the night they’ve shared, Coën’s heart once again speaks before his mind can stop him. 

“I love you.” 

Lambert tenses against Coën’s back, but he doesn’t pull away. Silently berating himself for ruining the evening, Coën doesn’t push him. Time seems to stretch as they both sit frozen, each man lost in their own thoughts, before Lambert tilts his head into the other man’s throat. 

“You keep saying that.” 

Coën reaches up and curls one hand around the nape of Lambert’s neck. He breathes against the soft hair under his lips and answers in the same quiet tone, “Yes, I do.” 

“But I haven’t said it back.” 

“That’s not a reason to stop saying something that’s true,” Coën murmurs with gentle fierceness, his hand squeezing against Lambert’s neck. He pauses, a terrible thought rising, maybe he didn’t feel the same - “Unless … does it bother you?” 

Lambert remains silent and still for several long moments. Coën remains equally silent and still, worry escalating, except for a gentle back and forth caress against the warm skin of Lambert’s neck. His thumb circles slowly across the back of the hand still resting on his stomach, trying to soothe them both. Eventually, the other Witcher answers the question. 

“A little bit, yeah.” 

Coën swallows thickly and asks, “Can you tell me why?” 

There is an even longer moment of silence and stillness, then, “I – I don’t want to be the reason you die.” 

Spurred into action by the anguish in the whispered words, Coën twists in the circle of Lambert’s arms and clasps his downturned face between his hands. “Lambert, _schatje_ , how can you say that?” 

Lambert catches at the wrists near his head and mindlessly digs his fingernails deep with the force of his grip. Coën tries not to flinch as soft, misery-edged words tumble past trembling lips. 

“Aiden – Aiden wasn’t the first person I loved that strongly. My mother was the first. Basil, my best friend at Kaer Mohren before the Trials was the second, and Fieria, an Elven woman I met a few years on the Path, after him. Then Aiden … 

“And you know what each of them have in common?” he questions wretchedly. “They all died horrible deaths. I – I loved them, and they’re all dead. My father beat my mother to death. Spear Tip tore Basil to pieces, Fieria was impaled during a pogrom. Aiden – ” 

He shakes his head as if to clear a memory. “A-and it hurt, every time, it hurt so much. It still hurts so much. So, I vowed that I wouldn’t put anyone else at risk like that. It would be better for me to be alone forever than to get anyone else killed. But then you came along.” 

Lambert gives a small hiccup, almost a sob, but he forces himself to finish his confession. “You wouldn’t leave me alone, wouldn’t let me wallow in my misery. Even Eskel and Geralt could take the hint, but not you, and I hated you a little for that, at first. But the longer you stayed with me, the hate changed to something else, and that scared me more than any monster I’ve ever faced.” 

“You terrify me, _kochany_ ,” he whispers into the worn material at Coën’s shoulder, “but I can’t walk away from you any longer. I want to say – I want to tell you, like I did _them_ , but if I do … if I do, then the words are out there and you can be taken f-from me, too. And I _can’t_ – I can’t lose you, too.” 

Coën tugs his hands from Lambert’s grip to slip around his bowed shoulders and pulls him close. “ _Schatje_ , I’m sorry,” he says softly in his ear. 

It’s the only thing he can say. He can’t promise to not to die before Lambert, can’t promise not to die in some horrible way. They are Witchers, and no Witcher has died in his bed. He starts to rock with the other man in his arms. 

“I’m so sorry. If I had known – I won’t say it again.” 

“No!” The violence of his response startles them both, but Lambert hurries to continue before his courage fails him. “I like it when you say it. I like how it makes me feel. I just – I just can’t say it back.” He pulls back enough to meet Coën’s eyes for a brief moment, his expression pained, before he buries his face back in Coën’s shoulder. “Doesn’t mean I don’t feel it.” 

Coën moves until he can properly face his distraught Wolf and wraps him up in a warm, strong embrace. “Then I’ll just have to hear it in the other ways you say it,” he says quietly into the ear beneath his lips. “Because you do, every day, you tell me, Lambert. It’s in the little things, like the way you always sneak the carrots off my plate because you know I despise them, even though you don’t really like them, either. Or the big things, like how you took such good care of me yesterday. I’ve never trusted anyone with those episodes the way I trust you, even my brothers. 

He turns his head and rests his forehead against Lambert’s temple, his voice soft with regret as he finishes, “You show me all the time that you l – that you care about me. As long as you do that, I don’t need the words, and I shouldn’t have pushed for more. I’m sorry, _schatje_ , I –” 

Lambert's mouth covers his, cutting off any further apology. The kiss is warm and gentle and bittersweet, the forgiveness and love and leftover misery in it palpable, and it’s quite possibly the best kiss Coën has ever been given. Lambert’s tongue darts out to tease at Coën's lips, to make him believe in what he didn’t have the words to express. Coën opens his mouth to grant it entrance and moans softly as Lambert graciously accepts the invitation. Every inch of his mouth is explored before the curious tongue withdraws, coaxing Coën's to follow and play in the wine-flavored warmth behind Lambert's lips. Coën closes his eyes to savor Lambert's own unique taste and the emotions, sweet and bitter, being offered with it. 

“Or when you kiss me like that,” he adds breathlessly when they finally part. He nuzzles a little into Lambert’s beard and whispers, “I love you, Lambert.” 

Instead of pulling back, Lambert hums an acknowledgment of his words and rubs the tip of his nose against the length of his. Lambert’s eyes crinkle slightly around the edges with a smile Coën is too close to see properly. He leans in to kiss that smile. He is not prepared when Lambert leans back out of range instead. 

“Lambert?” he asks worriedly, “Is something wrong?” 

He can clearly see the small, fragile smile on his beloved’s face now, and he stills so as not to disturb the moment. Lambert slides out of his arms and climbs to his feet. He bows his head for a moment before he takes a deep breath, a decision made. Raising his head, he holds out a hand to help Coën up, one eyebrow cocked challengingly. 

"No, nothing’s wrong,” he answers in gravelly tone, the low rumble stirring heat in Coën’s blood. “I’ve just got more I want to show you. Privately. At length. Don’t think a roof’s the appropriate spot for that, do you?” 

Coën feels a smile of his own spread beneath his beard and takes the offered hand. “Then let us move this inside, _schatje_. I want you to show me … everything.” 

Lambert leans in to capture his mouth in another devastating but short kiss. “Oh, I intend to. C’mon.” 

“I’m right behind you, my own. Lead the way.”

**Author's Note:**

> Love is the voice under all silences,  
> the hope which has no opposite in fear;  
> the strength so strong mere force is feebleness:  
> the truth more first than sun,  
> more last than star.  
> — e.e. cummings


End file.
